


for you

by witching



Series: purple rain [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Banter, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18791911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: all of this and more is for youwith love, sincerity, and deepest caremy life with you i share-- prince, "for you"





	for you

**Author's Note:**

> a snippet of post-shower fluff that got cut from the last chapter of "your weekend lover" for being excessively cheesy and tooth-rotting. but it deserves to see the light of day.

Crowley stood and watched, impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet, while Aziraphale dug through his linen closet. He was cold, mostly, but he also didn’t much fancy being more than two feet away from the angel. When Aziraphale returned, he held out a thick robe, graciously positioned for the demon to slip his arms into it, which he did. It was an Aziraphale-sized robe, and warm, and Crowley enveloped himself in it, a pleased hum escaping him without his permission.

The noise quickly turned into an exaggerated groan, however, as he watched the angel wrap the other robe around himself. In response to the puzzled and concerned look he received, Crowley indicated Aziraphale’s entire self with a wave of his hand. “It's a _crime,_ to cover up your body,” he explained, in the tones of one who had just found out the Sistine Chapel was to be torn down.

“You’re insatiable,” Aziraphale said with a laugh.

“I _told_ you,” Crowley said earnestly, “I’ve got a lot to make up for.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his brow and looked at the demon sympathetically. “You haven’t got anything to make up for,” he reassured him. “You know that, right?”

Crowley looked down, tugging at his sleeve. “Yeah, I guess,” he mumbled, “if you say so.” He took a few deep breaths before raising his chin, a look of solid determination on his face. “Except, no, I have. I have. I fucked up. I fucked up so much, and you were patient and understanding when I didn’t deserve it. Always. You’ve always been too kind to me when I don’t deserve it.”

“You stop that,” the angel scolded, his hard voice belying the warmth in his eyes. “I have not spent six thousand years with you because I’m _nice,_ you impossible thing. I love you. I wouldn’t love you if you were perfect, and I wouldn’t love you if you weren’t worth loving. So please do shut up.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whined, pouting his lips. “I just… I've been so awful to you.”

“You’ve always been you. That's all I need.” Aziraphale reached for Crowley's hand, pulling him closer. “And I've been known to be a bit of a bastard, myself. It's been difficult and confusing for us both, to get to this point, but we're here now. It’s simply impractical to dwell on what we did wrong, when _this_ is so right.”

“You're right,” Crowley sighed, leaning into the angel's arms. “I just feel so _stupid,_ is all. For pushing you away.”

“You _are_ stupid,” Aziraphale said fondly. “You're stupid and brilliant and beautiful and I love you.”

Crowley moved almost imperceptibly closer, said nothing, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to wrap his free hand around the back of the demon's neck and reel him in for a kiss, slow and tender, deep and warm. It didn't escape Crowley's notice that it was their first proper kiss since their mutual confessions of love, and he breathed an internal sigh of relief that it was just as magical as he had hoped. He tried to make the most of it, twining his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, pressing into him with his entire body. It wasn’t about trying to escalate it into something more sexual; he simply felt a visceral need to be close to the angel. Even when Aziraphale pulled away, Crowley continued pressing kisses to his cheeks, the top of his head, his ears, his neck, everywhere he could easily reach, as the angel stroked his hair gently.

“Say it again,” Crowley mumbled against Aziraphale’s collarbone, feeling a bit lightheaded.

“I love you,” Aziraphale replied immediately.

Crowley giggled and hid his face in the angel’s chest, nuzzling into the soft plush fabric, before his muffled reply came. “I love you, angel,” he said. And then, quieter, “Say it again?”

Aziraphale took a deep inhale, smiled softly, and closed his eyes contentedly. He wrapped both arms around the demon and pulled him closer, running a hand along his arm. After a long silence, he spoke again. “I love thee,” he said slowly, his voice smooth and warm, “to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.”

“A _zir_ aphale,” Crowley whined, “you can’t do that to me.”

“I love thee freely,” the angel continued, “as men strive for right.” He carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair, and the demon hummed, soothed by the sensation. “I love thee purely, as they turn from praise,” murmured Aziraphale.

“I love thee with the passion put to use in my old griefs,” Crowley replied, looking up again, choosing to play along, “and with my childhood’s faith. I love thee,” he continued, faltering slightly. “I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints.”

Aziraphale blinked, absorbing the words. They weren’t Crowley’s words, of course, not originally, but he meant them. Pressing a soft kiss to the demon’s forehead, Aziraphale decided it was best to skip the lines about death, for now. “If ever two were one, then surely we,” he said dreamily, as if he were thinking out loud.

Crowley smiled at the new poem. “I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,” he replied.

“My love is such that rivers cannot quench,” Aziraphale said, “nor ought but love from thee give recompense.”

“Thy love is such I can no way repay,” Crowley said on a breath.

“No te quiero sino porque te quiero,” whispered Aziraphale, switching  seamlessly between languages.

“Te quiero sólo porque a ti te quiero,” Crowley whispered back.

“Oh, it puts the heart in my chest on wings,” the angel recited, “for when I look at you, even for a moment, no speaking is left in me.”

“I love you more than the world can contain in its lonely and ramshackle head.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t know that one.”

“It’s Sufjan Stevens.”

“Was he Medieval? I never cared much for Medieval European poetry.”

Crowley laughed, a full, hearty laugh that came from the bottom of his belly. “No, angel,” he said, his tone dripping with fondness, “he's contemporary. He's a modern gay icon.”

“Hm,” said Aziraphale, as if he were actually considering the value of contemporary poetry rather than thinking about the fact that _he_ was the only modern gay icon who mattered, thank you very much.

Crowley nudged him in the ribs. “Say it again,” he mumbled.

“If you want me to keep saying it, why don't we switch it up a bit?” Aziraphale smiled, warm and adoring. “We'll do one over dinner, one over drinks, one out in the rain.”

“If you're a bird, I'm a bird,” muttered the demon.

“We can do one under the moonlight, one during a slow dance,” Aziraphale continued, oblivious to Crowley's pop culture reference. "A thousand scenes, a thousand declarations of love."

The demon frowned. “You're mocking me, angel.”

“Maybe, a bit,” the angel conceded. “You're so _theatrical_ about it, it’s hard not to.”

“I’m theatrical? You started reciting poetry at me.”

Aziraphale nodded, laughing again. “So you’re theatrical,” he said lightly, “and I’m poetic. We fit together.”

“Yeah,” murmured Crowley, “we sure do, angel.”


End file.
